


Every Wand'ring Bark

by AMarguerite



Series: An Ever-Fixed Mark [8]
Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: AU of an AU, Deconstruction, F/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, yeah sorry i don't have any excuse for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22873126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: Soulmate-identifying marks appear on one's wrist at sixteen and generally just cause chaos. It certainly has for Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam-- and life only gets more complicated when his elder brother can't have children, and Richard has to take his place in the line of succession in the Earldom. Does he look for his soulmate? Does he settle for anyone willing to ensure the Earldom doesn't go into abeyance for lack of heirs male?In attempting to avoid these questions, he takes up his cousin's friend's offer to join a shooting party in Hertfordshire, and ends up facing them anyways.AU of an AU.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Colonel Fitzwilliam
Series: An Ever-Fixed Mark [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/629375
Comments: 482
Kudos: 612





	1. In Which Mrs. Bennet is Extremely Startled by Mr. Bingley's Guests

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An Ever-Fixed Mark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523001) by [AMarguerite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite). 

> I was trying to break through the writer's block and got this prompt on Tumblr, based on my "Ever-Fixed Mark" soulmate-identifying mark AU:
> 
> "In your story, "That Looks on Tempests," there is a line from Marjorie to Elizabeth about how her firstborn son was breech and she feared she'd die birthing a stillborn, because Stornoway was so devoted to her that he'd never remarry. It got me wondering, what would've happened if that had come to pass? Would the Earl have insisted his second son sell out since he's now Stornoway's heir? Would the Colonel (assuming he's achieved that rank by then) have joined Darcy at Netherfield?"
> 
> Couldn't bring myself to kill off Marjorie, but here's my take on it.

Richard had become habituated to talking _ around _ everything important in life and never about it. To be an adult was to be well-versed in the art of delicate circumlocutions. One spoke in social sonnets: never faltering in the formality of one’s expression, always hinting at one’s true meaning within the proscribed rhythm and meter without adding an extra foot in the line and thereby unbalancing the whole. He had received his first lesson in this at sixteen, when the ‘Bennet’ on his wrist had appeared, and no one spoke the name aloud. They had spoken around it, as if by approaching the mark indirectly they might frighten it away, like a crow in a wheatfield. They never had. ‘Bennet’ remained on his wrist, a resolute roundhand, each curve and line unbearably familiar, bearing up years of grief, frustration, anger, and bitterness. 

(And for too brief a time, deep love and comfort— but it had been many years since he had last felt as much and now avoided looking at his mark as much as possible.)

When his father’s letter had come that spring, Richard had known to read it once to take in the lines, and a second to take in the spaces between them. The lines informed him that his father wished to discuss some matters of business with him. Surely Richard could not be comfortable on his pay (which nearly, but never did cover his expenses), his allowance, and his inheritance from his mother; some properties, some shifting of income would be possible given how well the Earl’s investments were doing; perhaps he had better come home, it had been over a year since he was last in London and had set out with Sir Arthur Wellesley for Portugal; the family all missed him and there were several balls this season that he must attend, and several bills that the Earl wished to discuss with him; and, in a post-script, the news that the viscount and viscountess Stornoway (i.e. Richard’s older brother Julian, and his wife Marjorie) were back from the latest fashionable watering place and meant to travel only between London and Matlock the rest of the Season, if not the year.

The space between these lines informed him that Julian and Marjorie had given up trying for children; it was time for Richard to take his place in the line of succession. 

It was a duty suspected and dreaded but never outright acknowledged. And even now, several months into his retirement from the lists, where the only outward sign of military service was the courtesy title ‘Colonel,’ none of the permanent residents of Matlock House had discussed the true nature of his changed circumstances. Richard was beginning to doubt it himself. Perhaps he _ had _ forgotten that his father always intended him to sell out and be married around thirty; perhaps he _ had _ always been given lessons on how to run the estate in Hampshire and merely been too busy reading forbidden novels or flicking bits of paper at his elder brother to pay attention; perhaps his father really _ did _ know a large number of families by the name of Bennet in London; perhaps his father’s summer house parties _ had _always contained a remarkably high percentage of not just Bennets but young ladies popularly rumored to be without hope of finding their soulmates. 

This last circumstance troubled Richard a great deal and it was with relief that he quit Matlock to spend September in London. The Earl had put off several necessary consultations on the Slavery Abolition Act last spring and then again that summer, in the rush to find any variation of ‘Bennet’ in Mayfair. The meetings could not be put off any longer, not if the Earl wished the bill to go to Parliament in January. 

Three or four— or not _ yet _four matches had been found and made at Matlock that summer, and Richard found his eye lingered on these announcements as he flicked through the papers in the library, more than any other piece of news. They were, in all probability, not true matches, but they were marriages, and ones good enough that all the world would pretend they were true matches. An odd thing to associate with the Fitzwilliam family and its very High Church adherence to the idea that one’s soulmark was the name of the person God had ordained for one to marry. 

There came a knock at the door— and as the door did not immediately open, it could not be the Earl. Richard called, “Enter!” 

Julian came in, wearing his banyan over trousers, unbuttoned waistcoat, and a shirt open at the collar. He looked blearily exhausted, in a manner that could not be attributed to nature alone, this early in the afternoon. The scent of claret came (expectedly) wafting in on the breeze caused by the closing of the door. “Richard, I swear, this is worse than when any of the girls were put on the market.”

Richard did not rise from where he was sprawled in the window seat facing the garden as he had as a youth— with one booted foot up and braced against the opposite sill, the other dangling to the floor, the paper lifted above his head, with the kitchen cat curled up on his chest and purring. Indeed, he turned his attention back to his newspaper. He bit back the comment, ‘the sale of a stud horse always commands more attention at Tattersalls,’ as it would only upset Julian, whom he knew largely blamed himself for failing to produce the ninth Earl of Matlock. 

(Was it the ninth? The current Earl was the seventh, so Julian would be the eighth, and Richard would likely be the ninth for a year or two before any son of his became the tenth— so yes, the ninth. What depressing arithmetic.) 

“I was in India during all that,” Richard told his newspaper. “I suppose there was some good in my getting a pair of colors for my sixteenth birthday.” 

Julian sagged into a chair by the fire like yesterday’s abandoned clothes. He stared at his feet for a moment before saying, “I, er— I do not think I have always been the kind of brother you needed, Richard, and now I have made things more complicated than they already were for you. I am sorry for it.”

“They were, as you said, already complicated,” said Richard, feeling far too much at these words and hiding it by staring at his paper and pretending he felt nothing at all. “Father’s expectations have not changed in essence; merely in scope. I hope he has not been unpleasant to you, but if you will forgive the observation, I cannot think he has behaved very well by you and Marjorie. He has been….”

They both knew how to fill the silence. 

“To father’s credit,” Julian said haltingly, “he never insisted I get an annulment because Marjorie was only brought to bed once and then of a stillborn son, and as soon as he got near the idea, I told him in no uncertain terms that Marjorie was my soulmate and therefore the one person on earth God wished me to marry.” He said it very simply, as other men might state that it was raining as they observed thunderclouds and puddles. Indeed, Julian then tipsily confessed his own, rather idiosyncratic catechism with a faith Richard envied. God had meant Julian and Marjorie to marry and so too he meant for them not to have children. It was probably punishment for Julian’s own intemperance, for not properly valuing Marjorie as he ought when they were first married and seeking his own pleasure rather than tending to hers— a fault, he took pains to point out, he had remedied. He was a better man for it, and look how much good Marjorie had done as a result. Indeed, it would not surprise Julian in the least if seven generations of Earls of Matlock had existed primarily so that Marjorie could be in the right position to do the work God had allotted to her. Marjorie had, after all, pushed through the the Slave Trade Act through the Scylla of the House of Lords and the Charybdis of the House of Commons, a full two years before anyone thought it possible. So what if the two heirs male of the body of the current Earl produced no heirs male themselves? To Julian it made perfect sense that the line would end because, after Marjorie, the Earldom of Matlock was unnecessary in the divine plan Julian was sure existed.

Richard had little faith in plans, divine or otherwise. His time in the army had mostly taught him that plans always went wrong some way or another and a good commander was someone who knew not to give up, or insist on going forward when a plan was untenable, but instead to adapt. Then too, Marjorie’s kindness in early on explaining to him her methods, when he was home on leave or home training his troops and unsure how best to help push forward his family’s bills, had assured him of the necessity of never thinking there was only one course of action open to one. Plans must and should change as new information came to light, and the more one thought ahead, and the more possibilities one considered, the better off one would be. Still it was nice to know that in his own way, Julian understood and accepted Richard for what he was, and would not blame him or consider a male soulmate as anything but a matter-of-fact manifestation of the will of God. This specious religious reasoning was akin to Julian’s habit, when they were children, of offering Richard his favorite blanket when there were thunderstorms outside.

Richard could not help but be touched by this; too touched to feign absorption in his newspaper. He had to cosset the cat, since he knew Julian would be greatly alarmed and distrubed by an embrace. The Fitzwilliams were not a demonstrative family. “I am relieved to hear you think God’s plan for the family does not rely on my setting up a nursery,” said Richard, rubbing the cat’s velvety ear for comfort. “Father’s come a cropper on every Bennet in our circles.”

“Father has not been listening to Marjorie since we stopped trying,” said Julian apologetically.

“I did wonder.” 

“She did her best to—” Julian waved a vague hand. “If she’d had the management of it, it would all be better. Father’s over-eager and has too many enemies, he’ll cause all sorts of gossip. He has already.”

At this alarming news, Majorie pushed open the door to the library. She was still in her high-necked morning gown of whiteworked muslin, with a Kashmir shawl (one Richard had brought back from his service in India) thrown hastily over the whole. “Julian!” exclaimed she, a little too brightly. “My dear, I thought you were indisposed.”

“Oh that was a lie to get out of going to White’s with father,” said Julian, rising at once and taking the hand she reached out to him. “I confess to being a trifle disguised my dear, but it is all medicinal. My choler is very high. The next time he says he does not blame you, when he clearly does, I shall— I hardly know what I shall do. It is my fault, all of this.”

Marjorie looked down at their joined hands, her expression taut, as if she was keeping from tears by strength of will alone. 

Richard carefully deposited the kitchen cat on the rug and stood himself, brushing fur off his waistcoat. “Marjorie, Julian mentioned that our, ah— our father’s guest list has perhaps caused comment.”

“Oh yes.” Majorie shut the door and, after a moment’s consideration, locked it. “Not much, I am glad to say; I spotted the pattern before anyone else and sought to sow a little chaos in the best English garden style. I cannot say that there is _ no _speculation, but I think you ought to be less worried that people have guessed your mark, and more worried at what this summer’s guest list might foretell for this fall and winter.”

“Father wouldn't make Richard— would he?” Julian asked confusedly. “Every Fitzwilliam has married their soulmate for generations, surely. Can you think of anyone who didn’t?”

Richard ventured that Great-Aunt Anne, now Lady Ravenshaw, had married twice and had been pointedly invited to Matlock that summer.

“The first time was to her soulmate, though,” objected Julian. “An Iroquois chief. Lord Ravenshaw was a widower; they married for—”

Children; a word that sat uncomfortably with all of them, and that they therefore all avoided saying. 

“So I suppose it is less a moral principle and more a family law,” said Richard, trying to make light of the situation, but ending up sarcastic. “One in which loopholes ought to be exploited.”

“Family principles cannot exist when the family does not,” said Marjorie dryly. “Though I am with you, Richard; this emphasis on propagation before all wears on me. Why couldn’t it have been a title that devolved to heirs general? Your sisters would all share it, and rather than let it fall into abeyance, they would petition the Prince Regent to foist the title on Honoria. She would shake up the Lords so magnificently; I do so wish she could take the seat.” 

“I’m not sure that would solve the problem given that neither she nor her partner can, by law, have legitimate children,” said Richard, though he was much amused by this picture, of his most radical and pugnacious sister taking the Lords by storm. 

“Those dratted civil partnerships,” said Marjorie. “They’re next on the list.” She sank into a chair as gracefully as she would sink into a curtsey. “I cannot speculate on what the Earl thinks; he does not take me into his confidence. But I am very sure that half of society thinks there’s no hope of Richard meeting his soulmate and now he’s fair game for any woman who cannot marry her soulmate and wishes her child to be someday Earl of Matlock.”

“Explains why it’s worse,” said Julian, rather unhelpfully. 

“Are you sure?” asked Richard.

“Have you noted the pattern of the callers?” asked Marjorie. 

“To be quite honest, I’ve been spending most of my time back with Darcy,” said Richard. Darcy had wisely decided against going to Matlock that summer, citing promises to stay with other friends, or with the Darcy side of the family, as well as Georgiana’s own “ill health.” “He has been very kind in explaining to me why he is against land enclosure— though with a park like Pemberley’s, he hardly needs more land. Who are our callers?”

“Heiresses hoping to better their stations, and their brothers or fathers; ladies whom rumor assures me have no chance of meeting their soulmates, and their brothers or fathers; ladies with the names of other ladies, whose families insist their soulmarks mean other than they do, and their brothers or fathers—”

“Several brothers on their own,” said Julian, helpfully. “They see Honoria, and, well.”

“Father is not as accepting as all that.” Richard ran a hand through his hair and tugged lightly on it. He had chopped off his queue before going to Portugal, in deference to the Spanish heat and Sir Arthur’s preference (Sir Arthur, or Beau Wellesley as some circles called him, considered it not just smarter, but more hygenic to affect a crop). Richard missed the old weight of it still, as old-fashioned as it would be now. How quickly fashions changed these days. “I do confess to some worries on that head. I do not think I ever met my match, but the closest I ever came was a man. If that is the case—”

“Then the earldom’s outlived its use,” said Julian, comfortably. “God wouldn’t make you as you are, only for it to be _ wrong _. I mean, it’s God, isn’t it? If it’s between God and man, man’s usually got it wrong somehow. No one’s born a slave; we make them. And we are all aware slavery is wrong.”

Marjorie looked at Julian with some surprise. “My dear, all these Methodist abolitionists about the place have had a remarkable effect on you.”

“I do listen,” said Julian— not offended, merely pointing out a rather extraordinary circumstance. “Nice chaps. Rather talky, though.” He looked to Richard. “Look old man, don’t feel obliged to obey father. I know he can make life dashed unpleasant if you don’t do as he expects, but don’t make him force you to marry someone not your soulmate, just because _ he _wants grandchildren.”

Richard felt perilously moved and clasped Julian’s shoulder in passing. “Thank you.”

Marjorie cast an eye on the clock. “Julian, dearest, perhaps you had better go upstairs; your father will be home soon, _ and _Honoria has threatened to descend upon us; somehow news of the guest list reached her in the wilds of Scotland and she means to give the Earl an earful on Richard’s behalf.”

“I had better run to ground as well,” said Richard. “I am not entirely sure—”

“They are only rumors,” said Marjorie. “Everyone is coming to discuss abolition; not the Earl’s plans for you; and Honoria probably will not be in London until this evening.”

“All the same, I am not happy those rumors exist.” He was unsure exactly how to give voice to a feeling of startled, unsettled nervousness— it felt as if when he turned to look in the mirror, he would see a stranger. “I meant to ask Darcy about coppice woods today; I shall visit. Do you care to come with me, Marjorie? I cannot imagine meeting with my father is any more comfortable for you at present than it is for me.” 

Marjorie was too diplomatic to say so, but she agreed to go with him. 

Visiting with Darcy felt like escaping a prison; Darcy House had little of the uselessly fine about it, and everything of real comfort and elegance. Richard felt he could breathe again. Georgiana was subdued, but glad to see him and Marjorie, and talked to them about Mozart for long enough that Richard felt convinced Georgiana was at last coming out of the doldrums incurred by that vacation at Ramsgate. He still felt tremendous guilt, however, when the butler announced the Bingleys, and Georgiana immediately fled to the piano.

“Does she still dread company?” asked Marjorie as Georgiana thundered out a Hayden sonata— a musical feat Richard had thought impossible. 

Darcy sighed. “It varies. With someone she knows as well as Bingley, she does not flee— but when he brings his sisters, whom she knows less well, she does. I had hoped otherwise. Even though she is not yet out, Bingley kindly extended an invitation to Georgiana for a shooting party this fall. I gave the excuse of the masters in town and her lessons, but the truth of the matter was, she was terrified of living, even for six weeks, with three people she did not know well.”

“What frightens her particularly?” asked Richard. 

“That I cannot get out of her; I think she is too ashamed to tell me.” Darcy went restlessly to the window. “As far as I can guess, she distrusts her own judgment, especially of the motivations of other people. So anyone she does not know well, she finds an object of terror.”

“When are you going to Bingley’s new estate?” asked Marjorie. 

Bingley came in then, and said brightly, “Tomorrow! We set out for Hertfordshire then, and my new estate, Netherfield. There is to be a local assembly. I could not have planned a better entrance into the neighborhood.”

Richard glanced at Darcy, who clearly did not share this opinion, but kindly forebore from saying so out loud. Mr. Bingley’s sisters, who had come with him, to visit with Georgiana before leaving town, also did not appear to share Bingley’s enthusiasm for a country dance where one might be obliged to stand up not with a gentleman, but the village apothecary, or indeed, anyone who could afford the fees. 

“Colonel Fitzwilliam! Lady Stornoway! How marvelous to see you—” Bingley came over to them with kind welcome, and impulsively asked if they should like to make up the party— and Lord Stornoway as well.

Richard was touched by this goodhearted impetuosity, which one seldom found among his family’s circle, which was all a careful give-and-take of grandeur and display, but Marjorie seemed to slightly distrust it. No one outside the family would have guessed what the slight smile and the briefly quirked eyebrow signified, and indeed, as she smoothly disclaimed her share of the invitation the Bingley sisters hastily seconded their brother’s invitation. 

Richard was well aware that Mr. Bingley’s sisters had done so, so that Marjorie would be obliged to invite them to Matlock next summer, or to parties in town, but still; this did not discount the generous good-nature with which the offer had first been made and Richard thanked Bingley for his share of it with a great deal more warmth. 

“Do consider it, if your brother and sister cannot come,” replied Bingley. “I find larger parties to be more agreeable than smaller, and Hurst is not as fond of sport as Darcy or I; we would welcome a third when we go out shooting. I daresay you could show us a trick or two.” 

“—and a knighted shopkeeper called Lucas as the principal families,” said Miss Bingley, to Marjorie. “Pray Lady Stornoway, do let us have some civilized company— say you will come.”

“I am obliged to stay in town this next month,” said Marjorie. “Indeed— Darcy, I mean to ask if you would mind if I took Georgiana with me on some of our informal calls. I know she is not yet out, but I believe her come out may be easier if she is better acquainted with my Spencer and Devonshire cousins. She will know half the Whigs in London if she merely goes calling with me. I suppose I had better ask you as well Richard; you are her co-guardian.”

“I think that would be a very good thing,” said Richard. He trusted a great deal in Marjorie’s judgment of others and rather thought that if her method of seeing the world could be imparted to Georgiana, Georgiana would be a great deal happier in society than she currently was. 

Darcy agreed to this, and this news so relieved Georgiana, when she was at last lured from the piano, that she was able to mumble several sentences to Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst about their kindness and her hopes that they might have a pleasant stay in the country.

Marjorie was thoughtful on the walk home, across the park. Apropos of nothing she said, “Richard, I hope you will consider Mr. Bingley’s invitation. I think it might do you good to have a nice, restorative lease among people you do not know and people who do not know you. The sort of gossip that has been worrying you will hardly have traveled to the landed gentry of a small market town in Hertfordshire.” 

“Do you expect it to be so unpleasant at home?” 

Marjorie hesitated. 

This was answer enough.

“Are you sure you would not wish to go?”

Marjorie shuddered delicately. “Of course not. I abhor the country. The stillness unnerves me. All one hears is animals mucking about. And I cannot see how one can occupy oneself in such a small party with nothing but a local assembly every month. No theatre, no opera— heavens, they must bore themselves to tears! But you have spent so much time on sieges it cannot be so very dreadful for you.” 

Richard had to laugh at that. “You will not mind having the Bingleys to dinner in exchange?” 

“I would not mind asking them to a rout party perhaps. It is such a mad scene as soon as one opens the door—”

And such it was, when Marjorie and Richard stepped into the vestibule. This was entirely unexpected. But as it so happened, Honoria had arrived early, Julian was still drunk if not, in fact, drunker than before, the Earl incensed and one of their mother’s clerical cousins, whom all the Earl’s children pretended did not exist, was heatedly holding forth on the rightness or wrongness of same sex soulmates. His chief argument, as far as Richard could tell among all the noise of the cousin’s attempt to storm off, and Julian and Honoria’s attempts to become as Furies and hound him to the ends of the earth, was that soulmarks were to ensure the correct propagation of the species. For obvious reasons, this drove Julian into a wild temper, and Honoria likewise. The Earl was furious, but completely ineffective to stop either of them, or the cousin from flinging the door open and stomping out while snarling that he did not understand how so good a woman as his aunt, the Countess, had _ such children _.

“I do not understand how you can walk,” said Honoria, “as ordinarily one cannot when one’s head is so far up one’s—”

The door slammed before the rest of the neighborhood could hear this comment, but at that point the Earl attempted to take Julian to task and Julian exploded at him like several tons of gunpowder over the Earl’s treatment of not just Marjorie, but Honoria and Richard. The Earl was almost slack-jawed in astonishment, and spluttered incoherent objections to this, chiefly focusing on their duties as aristocrats, ones that Honoria snarlingly countered as soon as they were voiced. 

“Hallo,” said Richard to Honoria’s partner Miss Duncan, who had backed into a corner and looked as if she’d rather be in hell than witnessing this fight. “Journey down alright?”

“It was not too difficult,” said Miss Duncan. “By the by— before Honoria challenges your father to pistols or swords over your right to marry a man— what is it you want?”

“In all honesty?” Richard sighed, feeling the claustrophobic walls built from the uncomfortable expectations of others closing in on him. “To get away from all this. It almost makes me wish I was back in the army.”

Miss Duncan nodded in mixed sympathy and understanding. “Of course.”

“It isn’t too late to tell the Bingleys you wish to go with them,” said Marjorie, who seemed the most resigned to the fight.

“— you will never succeed in making us anything other than we are,” said Honoria. 

“Oh he can!” snapped Julian, into a sudden silence. “He can make us all _ miserable _. And in that he has succeeded.” 

With that he stormed upstairs, Honoria following in grim satisfaction. 

“I think we ought to dine separately this evening,” said Marjorie, after a moment. “Miss Duncan, will you come with me? I must go speak with the cook.” 

This left Richard, who was too discombobulated to say anything, torn between relief at hearing this said aloud and not having to say it aloud himself, and a paralyzed embarrassment that it had been said aloud at all, alone with the Earl. 

The Earl stared at Julian and Honoria in utter, offended incredulity. 

The desire to escape grew so strong, Richard could no longer deny it. He said, “I shall be leaving tomorrow for Hertfordshire, for a shooting party.”

The Earl made a noise which Richard knew was not acknowledgement, but could pass for it. Richard went hastily up to his room and dispatched a note to Bingley, asking if he could join the party, if it would not be an inconvenience, and received an excited sheet of inkblots, which a quick visit to Darcy (who kindly gave him dinner) confirmed meant that Bingley would be delighted to take Richard along as well. 

It was a great relief to quit his father’s house, and greater still to be in an entirely new house— even if it was leased— with people who had no expectations of him other than being a good houseguest…

... and inviting them to his family’s parties in London. But that was part and parcel of being a good houseguest, so Richard did not mind Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst’s slightly unctuous politesse. He found the grounds of Netherfield to be pretty, when he stretched his legs before dinner, and thought the surrounding countryside equally nice. He had only ever passed through Hertfordshire before; it was a great pleasure to be in a place entirely new where the name of ‘Fitzwilliam’ was probably unknown, or at least, known only as a name often seen in newspapers. He knew no one; no one knew him-- all the complicated questions of his existence could be sponged away, and he might breathe freely for the first time since leaving the army. 

It was with this same mood of thankful relief that he dressed and left with the rest of the party for the Assembly. It was not shared by anyone else. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, still trying to prove themselves of the first circles, spoke slightingly and sneeringly of little country assemblies. Mr. Hurst, who was no dancer, thought it a ridiculous way to spend one’s first evening when one could just as easily have a nice card game. Darcy was nervous about leaving Georgiana; they had not been apart since the Incident at Ramsgate and even the knowledge that someone as capable as Marjorie was taking Georgiana about town could not chase away all his fears. Although— Richard did wonder if that was the sole cause of Darcy’s turn for the taciturn; he seemed uneasy and unhappy, ready to metaphorically hide under the furniture with his ears back, ready to claw at anyone who tried to draw him out. 

Bingley at least, was in the same mood he generally was: to please and be pleased, and bounded enthusiastically into the assembly rooms, right above Meryton’s lone inn. It was not a bad set of rooms and there was a sizable enough crowd— though it appeared that they had arrived late. Everyone was milling toward the refreshment room. They followed, Mr. Hurst edging ahead as a scout. He faithfully reported that there was a card room, where he was going to spend the evening, and also that there was Negus on offer; intelligence which was interesting, but not immediately useful to Richard, as he had discovered at a very young age that combining any kind of punch and dancing ended like a boxing match: with Richard involuntarily on the floor. But still, the ladies expressed an interest and Richard offered to go, feeling it was the gallant thing to do. 

Darcy immediately offered to assist, though, it appeared, more out of the desire to stick to Richard like a burr rather than be gallant to the ladies. 

“And leave us here?” cried Miss Bingley, playfully censorious. “No, no; we shall be overrun.”

“I am not defense enough for you, Caroline?” asked Bingley, cheerfully enough. 

“You are too friendly by half, Charles; if ever we are stopped by highwaymen, I really think it would end with you buying drinks for them all at the nearest local inn.” Miss Bingley shot a speaking look to Darcy, who attempted a smile. It was not a very successful attempt. 

“I doubt there are any highwaymen here currently, and if they are, the inn is right below us. I should not go very far.” But Miss Bingley carried her point. Their party— sans Mr. Hurst, who had gone off to play cards— trooped dutifully into the refreshment room. 

“You alright, old man?” muttered Richard, as they collected the glasses. “You’re not like this normally. Eat something odd at dinner?”

“No,” said Darcy, tersely.

“What is the matter with you then? You’re never like this at balls.”

“Balls,” said Darcy. “Where one is invited by people one knows.”

“You know, I have never seen you among strangers?” Richard carefully balanced a third cup in between the two he was holding. “What an extraordinary evening this shall be. Who _ is _Mr. Darcy outside of Derbyshire and Mayfair?”

“Uncomfortable,” replied Darcy, dryly but truthfully. 

They fought through the crowd surrounding Mr. Bingley— Darcy leading the way, presumably so that he might bury himself in the knot of Bingleys— only to find him in the middle of introductions. “Ah, and here are the last of my party, aside from my brother-in-law Hurst — this is my friend, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and— where is your cousin?”

“Here, Bingley,” said Richard, struggling through. Bingley was facing someone Richard presumed was either the master of ceremonies or the principal gentleman of the region, given his manner and air of grandeur. “Your cup, Miss Bingley, and yours Mrs. Hurst, and—” stepping forward beside Bingley “—here is yours.” 

“Thank you,” said Bingley. “This is Sir William Lucas.” Richard bowed, a gesture Sir William returned with a tenfold increase in grandeur. “Sir William, allow me to introduce you to Colonel Fitzwilliam.” 

A furious and sudden storm of mixed port, lemon, sugar, and spices clouded his horizons. Richard leapt back as automatically as he might a spray of blood, his left arm rising in defense, his right hand going to a sword no longer there.

But it was not a sudden invasion by the French. No infantryman in blue broadcloth and red piping had burst in to slaughter an unarmed party of civilians. A handsome lady in rose silk and scalloped lace, hanging by Sir William and awaiting an introduction had choked on her punch. Three younger ladies immediately flocked to the one in rose silk, as Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst withdrew with moues of displeasure. 

“Someone must have jostled you in this crush,” decided a strikingly handsome girl in whiteworked white muslin. “Mary, will you please fetch Mama a glass of water?”

“Lizzy is closer to the table,” said a rather dour young lady.

“I am asking you,” said the first, with enough steel in her tone to make Miss Mary sourly turn on her heel and march towards the refreshment table, albeit with ill grace. 

“I— fine— really— so sorry—” wheezed out the lady in rose silk. “Colonel _ Fitzwilliam _!”

“Pray do not disturb yourself, madam, it is sadly crowded,” said Richard. He shook off his arm, which seemed to have taken the brunt of this port-side attack; he had worn a mulberry colored coat, missing his regimentals, and the stain was not very noticable. The only awkward thing was that it was damp and it was on his left arm— the one that bore his soulmark. If he took off his coat, he still had his shirt, but—

“Offer the gentleman your handkerchief,” wheezed out the lady. 

The third young lady, a pretty green-eyed girl, immediately sprang forward to offer it. “I am so very sorry, sir— will you allow me to—”

“Thank you, but there is no need to put yourself out on my behalf,” said Richard, taking the handkerchief and dabbing at his coat sleeve. 

The lady of the handkerchief had, on a second glance, had very fine _ hazel _ eyes, the green more prominent from the sea green ribbons adorning her white muslin gown, and the similarly colored ribbons holding back her dark ringlets. She was blushingly mortified and seemed to be searching his expression for something— traces of offense or anger possibly. Having been so lately embarrassed by the conduct of his father, Richard felt a great surge of fellow feeling. He smiled at the lady, meeting her pretty eyes. “Really, it is nothing; indeed, if I had been a wiser man and put on my regimentals as my valet suggested, there would be no sign of injury. Even now I think the coat is dark enough to hide it.”

“You dressed very auspiciously, sir,” agreed the lady. “I beg your pardon, but I did not quite catch your name— was it Colonel _ Fitzwilliam _?” 

“Indeed, yes, Miss…?”

Sir William Lucas heaved himself amiably and helpfully into the conversation. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, I have the honor of introducing you to Mrs. Bennet—“ a wave at the still coughing lady “— and three of her five daughters.”


	2. In which Richard is flummoxed by the existence of five Miss Bennets

“Mrs. Bennet and her  _ five _ daughters?” Richard repeated like a parrot, and with same croaking approximation of human speech. 

He could not make sense of this. Once, early on in his career, he had not ridden quickly enough from a full cannonade and fallen off of his horse, landing on his head. All his senses had then somehow ceased to function as they ought; it was impossible to approach anything like coherency or understanding from his confused impressions. He had merely looked about himself to see if the world had truly shifted as much as he believed it had, and been unable to tell. He felt much the same now— but, thank God, Darcy was here, this time, and could be looked to for assistance.

Darcy had been as well schooled in the art of saying eloquent nothings as Richard. His eyebrows had lifted, and then met above the bridge of his nose like the Crashing Rocks that destroyed any ship foolish enough to venture into the unknown, foreign waters of the Bosphorus— saying (to Richard, at least)— that this was indeed a Mrs. Bennet, she did indeed have five daughters, and this was indeed a bewildering set of circumstances. Richard had not misheard. 

Richard raised his eyebrows. Darcy expressed, by a shift of stance, and a quirk of eyebrow, that he was equally surprised, but then pressed his lips together. The news of Mrs. Bennet and the five Miss Bennets, in Darcy’s opinion, was information to be discussed later, at one’s leisure. It was information one should not immediately act on— or possibly a disavowal of Richard’s reasons for being surprised. It could be either; Darcy was fastidious. Someone spitting half a cup of negus on one’s dress coat was enough to disqualify the whole family from consideration. 

Fortunately no one but Richard (and possibly Bingley) knew how to read this, and the worthies of a Meryton seemed to find Richard’s slow, stupid pirouette to be a natural reaction to seeing only three Bennets when told there were five. 

“Yes, they are— dance,” wheezed Mrs. Bennet. “Quite correct, sir.” 

Thank God Darcy had stationed himself with his back to the dancing; Richard at least did not look like the fool he currently felt himself to be.

“Miss Bennet is there— Miss Jane Bennet—“ Sir William nodded at the Helen of Troy (well, Helen of Hertfordshire) gently patting Mrs. Bennet on the back, “and— where is Miss Mary?”

“She has gone to fetch our mother a glass of water,” said Miss Jane Bennet (Bennet!). 

“My two youngest—“ wheezed Mrs. Bennet, gesturing at the floor. 

“Kitty is there at the end of the line and Lydia next to her,” translated Miss Jane. These girls looked full young— probably Georgiana’s age. But they were both  _ Miss Bennets _ , gaily going down the dance. Good God, there were  _ five  _ of them. 

“And next to you sir,” said Mrs. Bennet, recovering, though with a rasp in her voice, “is my second eldest, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Miss Elizabeth, blushing to the tips of her ears, dipped into the sort of low curtsey that implied she would prefer to curtsy low enough to sink through the boards and abandon the Meryton Assembly Rooms entirely. But she recovered as she rose and lifted her eyes from the floorboards to Richard’s face and offered him a wryly apologetic, “Welcome to Meryton, sir; I am sure you shall never forget your entree into our society.” 

“I do beg your pardon, colonel,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Such a crowd as this! So easy to be jostled!”

It did not seem much of a crowd to Richard, but few others would have grown up observing his parents’ rout parties and watching what seemed like every member of the upper ten thousand passing through the set of rooms opened up on the first floor. And perhaps it was—  _ five Miss Bennets _ , after all, was not just a larger number of Bennets than he was anticipating, but a larger number than the Bennets in attendance the last week of the summer house party on the Matlock estate. Five! Did it mean anything? Was it possible—

“We are all so fond of dancing here,” continued on Mrs. Bennet, in what seemed a desperate attempt to recover from inadvertently baptizing Richard into the Meryton parish. “And look, they are still gathering for the next set!” 

“Mama!” hissed Miss Elizabeth, apparently unconvinced by this awkward elision into social cohesion. 

“So they are,” said Bingley, springing kindly into the breach. “Miss  _ Jane _ Bennet, may I have the next, if you are not otherwise engaged?”

“I hope you are all fond of dancing,” Mrs. Bennet desperately continued on. 

“I fear I am not—” Richard began, with a vague wave of the handkerchief at his coat sleeve. 

“Now you have blotted the worst, it will dry all the faster if you are moving,” suggested Mrs. Bennet. 

Darcy flung himself on his sword and stepped forward. “I somewhat doubt the efficacy of that— perhaps we ought to find one of the servants instead, colonel?”

Richard bowed and gave back the handkerchief to Miss Elizabeth. Darcy’s distemper— though he was very polite to the servant— made Richard instinctively tamp down his own annoyance, though he could not rid himself of the dazed thought of ‘five Miss Bennets!’ rattling about his head like the last bullet in a cartridge box. “I wonder,” Richard began, and floundered into silence. “Darcy, I hardly have caught my breath. What do you think?”

“I do not think you ought to count on it,” muttered Darcy. “If your match was not to be found in Mayfair, why then  _ Meryton _ ?”

The old idea— that he did not belong in Mayfair; that his mark was proof he ought not to be there— rose to choke him. Richard tried to shake it off as a cat might shake off an unintended fall. “But  _ five _ —”

“I do not say  _ discount  _ it,” said Darcy, relenting with characteristic compassion. “Merely— I have seen you injured, and often, by this, and I do not wish to see it again when this was meant to be a restful sojourn,  _ away  _ from all the—” he made an awkward gesture with his left hand, a sort of flick as if he might shake off his own soulmark like a bit of lint on the cuff of his shirt. 

It was subtle enough, but Richard still looked about them, fearful everyone might now realize what his mark said. The dancers were gathering for the next, and he and Darcy were far back by the refreshment tables, dabbing a mixture of soda water and vinegar on his coat sleeve with napkins, as there was no other room to retreat to, and Richard categorically refused to take off his coat in mixed company. At Darcy’s questioning look, Richard muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “I fear I betrayed myself before the company.”

“I know mortification may stretch a moment into hours, but as soon as you were introduced you turned to me,” muttered Darcy. “I believe you are safe— and any confusion might rightfully be attributed to a woman you had never met spitting negus onto your coat.”

“I do not think she meant to do it,” said Richard, automatically trying to smooth over and keep the peace. 

“I should hope it was involuntary,” said Darcy. “I cannot believe she was  _ jostled _ , but—”

“You think she was not—” A sudden bright spark of hope flared up in the raked over ashes of his romantic prospects. “Perhaps she was  _ surprised _ , however, by—”

Darcy was incredulous. “By an introduction? After she had been introduced to  _ all the other  _ members of the party?” Richard’s expression was enough for Darcy to sigh, in recognition of the point that perhaps Mrs. Bennet had heard the name of one of her many daughters’ soulmates— but not enough to keep him from adding, “I was taught as soon as I could bow it was impolite to eat or drink during introductions, for precisely that reason; that it is not apparently known here does not speak well of—” ‘your prospects,’ said the same flick of the left hand “—the society.” 

“Lower your voice man,” muttered Richard. They were far from the dancing, but Darcy’s voice had risen in incredulity, and one of the Miss Bennets (the five Miss Bennets!) was approaching with a servant bearing a salt cellar. It was the one with the sea-green ribbons— ah, Miss Elizabeth. 

“I do sincerely apologize again, colonel,” said she, her color still high— or perhaps high again, if she had heard Darcy, which could not be discounted. “And I convey to you again my mother’s deepest apologies; the salt ought to absorb the worst of it, and if your man cannot get out any lingering stain, of course, we will—”

Richard was slightly alarmed at what seemed an offer of reimbursement; this coat had been one of his father’s more pointed gifts from the Bond Street tailor Weston, an expensive and implicit command to go to more balls and be agreeable to the unmarried ladies there. Richard doubted any family in Meryton could easily pay Weston’s prices. “Oh pray put it out of your mind, Miss Bennet—” he fancied only he heard how strangely he said the name, with hesitance, disbelief, and hope all mixed “—I can hardly see a stain at all. I am only worried now that if I approach any lady present, they shall smell me before seeing me and run before I can ask them to dance, lest they assume I shall fall over and tear their gowns.” 

“I may assist in that, at least,” said Miss Bennet. “I—”

By the sound of it, Darcy had turned; and, if Richard knew Darcy (which he did, rather well), it was so that no one saw him rolling his eyes. 

“Pray do not think I mean to beg for a partner,” Miss Bennet added coolly. “I mean only to reassure you, sir, that everyone knows what happened, and that you were not in the least at fault.” 

Richard, surprised (and a little annoyed) by Darcy’s behavior, and unwilling to let slip a chance to speak to one of the five Miss Bennets, however small a chance their was of one of them bearing ‘Fitzwilliam’ on their left wrist, hastened to say, “Perhaps you might dance the next with me then, Miss Bennet. I daresay if you vouch for me, the neighborhood will extend me some credit.” 

Miss Bennet accepted with a pleasure that relieved Richard’s slight anxiety that he had somehow forced her hand. It was difficult for Richard to entirely concentrate on the dance; he was occupied in fighting with himself over whether or not accidentally coming across  _ five Miss Bennets  _ meant God was taking pity on him, or continuing to play some game of His own devising, where only He knew the rules, and the object was to amuse Himself at Richard’s expense. Richard automatically responded to Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s queries. He had just arrived that day; they had come down for the shooting; he was fond enough of shooting, it was the main pastime in the Army, especially under Wellington, but one grew tired of too much of it, and he confessed he had come for the company and the countryside as much as the quails. It seemed like they would have good sport and the gamekeeper at Netherfield seemed a good fellow, very fond of his pointers; Richard preferred cats, but how could anyone dislike dogs? His cousin Darcy loved dogs. From there it was an easy leap to Darcy’s fondness for Bingley, and all Bingley’s good qualities. Richard freely agreed to Bingley’s being one of the most good-tempered and amiable men in England, though Bingley was better friends with his cousin Darcy, and had been great friends since Bingley had fagged for Darcy at Eton; no, Richard had no estate of his own, he had only recently sold out of the army. His family was back in London politicking, or scattered across the globe (he kept from confessing that this was because his sisters had all run as far away from their family as they could, as soon as they could). At that he paused, and at last escaped from the faerie circle in which he had been mentally wandering, exclaiming ‘five Miss Bennets!’ to himself. “Sir William Lucas mentioned you have four sisters, Miss Bennet.”

“Yes— I am the second of five. Jane, there, is the eldest.” She nodded at Miss Jane Bennet, who was gliding as smoothly through the dance as a hot knife through butter. The thought bubbled up— was it quite possible… could this possibly be his match? But there  _ were  _ four others, including his dance partner, and one ought not to get ahead of oneself. 

“And you are all  _ out _ ?” Richard asked, raising his left wrist instinctively.

“All but my sister Lydia, there,” said Miss Elizabeth, nodding at a very tall girl in pink muslin. She had on evening gloves, but no bracelet— ah ha, not yet sixteen. 

Richard could not help looking puzzled. “Er— and she is out?”

“It is perhaps a little unsual that she goes with us when her mark is not yet come in,” admitted Miss Elizabeth, with what seemed an unthinking glance at Mrs. Bennet, “but she goes no further than country assemblies such as this, with all her sisters present.”

He could probably discount Miss Lydia Bennet then. There was the possibility that his name might appear on her wrist, but he would be thirty next year and he  _ highly  _ doubted that his soulmate would be someone  _ fifteen years  _ his junior. Richard extended his hand; Miss Elizabeth took it, her own pretty evening bracelet of inlaid enamel sliding down to kiss the back of her hand. “And you have two younger sisters?”

“Yes, Kitty is the second youngest. She is at the bottom of the set.” Miss Kitty, a full-figured girl in printed muslin and pink trimmings, did not seem very much older than Miss Lydia which made Richard slightly doubt her; but still, one could not discount her. “And my sister Mary you saw, I believe. She sits there next to my mother.” 

Miss Mary could be slightly seen, behind a large, heavy volume held up before her face; as they made their way down the set, weaving through the couples, Richard squinted at the gilt lettering. “I beg your pardon for staring, but is your sister reading Saint-Hilaire?” He bit back the incredulous ‘at a ball?’

“She is indeed,” said Miss Bennet with resignation. 

“That is the  _ French  _ fellow, is it not, who found the Rosetta Stone?”

“It is, but my sister believes that the republic of letters should not have its borders limited by such trivialities as continental war. She wishes to be an Egyptologist; she has hopes of someday being of use to the British Museum.”

A dry but still very respectable occupation— and one that signified that poor Miss Mary Bennet was probably a victim of temporal mismanagement. Her soulmate had probably lived and died centuries before her. They were past the days where ladies had to show their marks to the head of the museum, and prove that they could not hope to marry their soulmates in order to be employed in such work, but the implications lingered. Still, there was no reason to discount her  _ yet _ . And there was Miss Elizabeth, who was very pretty, and proved to have a wicked wit. She sharpened it on an overwrought but popular novel set in ancient Egypt that Richard brought up, because he had been reading it that summer and had no other knowledge of ancient Egypt, and had him laughing by the time the dance ended. Perhaps she— but no, one must be reasonable, and proceed with caution. It would not do to get his hopes up again, only for them to crash to the ground. 

When Richard returned Miss Elizabeth to Mrs. Bennet, Miss Kitty was there; Richard asked her for the next and quite promptly realized they were not a match. Miss Kitty was lovely to look at, very good-humored, and much delighted to be dancing with a colonel, but this early hope soon fizzled out. They spent most of the dance discussing his lack of regimentals (which distressed her), and Richard soon discovered Miss Kitty was not musical, she cared nothing for books, was not fond of travel— and, in short, it was yet another repeat of the hundreds of other dances with Miss Bennets and Lady Something Bennets, and Widow Bennets he had had since leaving the army. There was no sign of the connection one was supposed to feel for a soulmate; he could safely conclude Miss Kitty did not bear ‘Fitzwilliam’ on her wrist. 

Richard brought Miss Kitty back to her sisters— or rather to where Miss Mary was studying Saint-Hilare’s work on the Rosetta stone. Some very young gentleman, one who, by the ostentatious way he wore a leather guard, such as gamblers the age of Richard’s father had worn in their youths, to keep their lace cuffs clean, was newly in possession of his soulmark, presented himself and ushered Miss Kitty back onto the floor. 

Several of the young men were also wearing leather guards. It was odd how these fashions repeated, thought Richard. When he’d been at Eton, everyone had despised those cuffs; complicated cufflinks were all the rage. Richard had long ago abandoned the cuff-links as impractical, and been content enough with the security of well-tailored shirt and coat until his father demanded he quit the army. In a fit of particularly bad self-abnegation which he had chosen to call practicality, Richard had purchased a thin, buckled leather cuff in Portugal, the sort working men there wore when they needed to roll up their sleeves to work, but wished to remain decent. (In Spain they wore bracelets with the image of their patron saint above their marks, but there showing one’s mark was a source of pride rather than embarrassment. The mark on one’s wrist was the name of one’s patron saint, and therefore proof one was of the True Faith.) Richard had left it off when dressing that evening, as a sort of reminder to himself that he need not be guarded like he had been these past few months; he was on holiday and might relax. He rather wished for it now. He was almost painfully conscious of the ‘Bennet’ etched over the veins in his wrist.

Richard turned to Miss Mary. “Do you dance this evening, Miss Bennet?” 

Miss Mary lowered her book to glare at him. “No, sir. I never dance.”

“You prefer to read?”

“As you see,” she said and pointedly raised the volume once again. Miss Jane Bennet floated over in a cloud of white muslin and gently smoothed this over in a move and in a mode of speaking Richard recognized very well— for it was one he often deployed himself. His hopes rose despite his sternest promises to himself that they would not. “My sister Mary is very accomplished; there are few who can match her dedication to her studies.”

“I beg your pardon for distracting you from them,” said Richard, to which he received a faint ‘hm’ of acknowledgement from behind the book. He turned to Miss Jane Bennet instead, and she graciously accepted his offer to dance.

There was no doubt Miss Jane Bennet was the loveliest woman in the room; he thought he saw the tail end of several envious looks, including one from Bingley. Richard was even surprised at his own good fortune in dancing with her. He was not a hideous man, but he had never been handsome, even before the army had left its marks upon him. 

Miss Jane was much quieter than Miss Elizabeth or Miss Kitty; to his remarks about the assembly and the music, she merely smiled, and the only subject on which she could wax eloquent was her sister Elizabeth. Richard was amused to see Miss Jane had so obviously a favorite sister, for in Miss Jane’s estimation, Elizabeth was the embodiment of all that was best in the world. Miss Elizabeth was so very clever, always thinking of some witty remark, or some new way of seeing something that she, Miss Jane, would never have arrived at on her own. But she was seldom cruel in her wit; she let her darts fly without barbs. There was archness yes, but behind it a real sweetness and kindness, that held courtesy as the highest human value. There were so few people one met, who were both intelligent and good, but Elizabeth was surely one of them.

Richard was hard put not to laugh at this paean, but was much impressed with Miss Jane’s sweet temper and affection for her sister, and how obviously it manifested. Classical beauty seldom affected Richard— his attention had always been for the physical expression of personality; a laughing glance or a resting smile moved him more than the finest figure— but in talking of her sister Miss Jane nearly glowed with sincerity and affection. 

Was it quite possible—

Well, thought Richard, as the dance separated them, at the very least there was no reason to immediately discount her. He refused to let himself go further and instead sought out Darcy, who had been dancing with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, and was now avoiding the notice of Sir William Lucas.

Darcy raised an eyebrow and moved his shoulder, so that their faces were in shadow, away from the rest of the company. “Well?”

“I think we ought to talk after,” said Richard, carefully, “but will you do me a very great favor?”

“Name it.”

That was so very like Darcy. Richard felt very fond of him and then very sorry for the favor he must now ask. “Will you dance with the eldest two Miss Bennets, and give me your opinions on them tomorrow?”

Darcy looked as if he would rather have been asked to find the Northwest passage. “Why tomorrow?”

“Time to think.”

“I hardly need that much time to form an opinion.”

“I do,” protested Richard. “This is a subject on which I cannot be too careful.”

“I cannot contradict you on  _ that _ . But—”

“They are the two prettiest girls in the room.”

In a voice so quiet Richard had to lean in to hear it, Darcy muttered. “I am sure their last name has no influence on your opinion there.”

Richard laughed ruefully. “That is precisely why I need your opinion. I know it is asking a great deal of you, Darcy—”

Darcy grimaced suddenly; Richard glanced over their shoulders and saw Sir William Lucas bearing down on them like a siege tower. “I will handle Sir William Lucas if you will.”

Darcy bowed and hastened off, with Richard saying smilingly, “Sir William! You must excuse my cousin, he is gone to find a partner before the music begins.”

“Of course,” said Sir William. “It has not been so many years since my own dancing days. I still understand the great appeal of a pretty partner. And you and your cousin and friend, sir, shall find ones pretty enough here to rival St. James’s Court.”

“I am sure of it.”

“I understand that you are well familiar with that most illustrious place, as I am told your father is the Earl of Matlock!” 

‘Unfortunately,’ thought Richard. He said, with a forced smile: “Indeed he is.”

“I have had the great pleasure of seeing him at St. James’s Court. What a very fine figure of a man! How very great a statesman!”

Richard wondered when exactly that had been; his father was a noted Whig, and though under Pitt, he had held some Cabinet positions and had visit St. James's frequently, after the Prince Regent came to power, the Earl only went when it would cause a scandal not to be seen. The Earl disapproved of the Prince Regent's manners, mien, and morals and maintained a dignified and lofty silence rather than bestow the favor of his conversation on such a man. (Richard had sometimes joked that he wished the Earl had taken such a stance with him, but he had joked that way with Bénet only and— well this was no time to go sorting through that wreckage.) “Thank you, sir. I can assure you that I left my father—” stunned on the stairs? “—in very good health, though he is much occupied at present. Now the slave trade is abolished, he is determined on seeing the institution itself demolished.”

“A very worthy goal. Lady Lucas and I take care only to buy our sugar from free men.”

Richard smiled. “It is a very great relief to find like minds in Meryton.”

“Of course, sir! We are a very liberally minded society here; you will note that several of our major tradesmen have partners of the same sex, and are always met with civility and good treatment— so much so that more have come to set up shop here than in any of the surrounding villages.” Richard was extremely glad to hear this and said as much. “Meryton cannot  _ rival  _ London, of course, but it is by far the pleasantest society in this part of the country. I had once some thought of fixing in town, for I am fond of superior society, and conversation with like minded individuals, such as yourself; but I did not feel quite certain the air would suit Lady Lucas.”

“That is, of course, a great concern,” Richard replied automatically. A horrible, perhaps unworthy thought had occurred: Hertfordshire was but four hours easy distance from London. Sir William Lucas was proud (overly proud) of his familiarity with St. James’s Court and had sone thought of fixing in town, which, in Richard’s circles, meant that one had rented a London residence for some length of time and considered a ninety-year lease. How connected were these families to London? Had any of the rumors about him traveled this far? “I suppose you were in London last to present your daughters at court?”

Sir William looked vaguely embarrassed. “I— that is— Lady Lucas’s health forbade it with our Charlotte. Our second girl, Maria, has only just received her mark. We have some hopes of being in town this January, if Lady Lucas’s health allows it.”

Or his purse, possibly; a presentation in court was as expensive as it was absurd for ladies. But still— “It occurs to me, sir, that I have been remiss. I ought to have asked your daughter to dance well before now, but I, er—” he gestured to his sleeve. At least it was no longer damp, though it was a little discolored. “I have not yet been introduced.”

Miss Lucas was a plain girl, but sensible and rather shrewd. He fancied that she understood the gist of his questioning very quickly— rather too quickly in fact. She spoke of her own family’s visits to London, and moved on immediately to the fact that Mrs. Benent’s elder brother and his wife lived in town and that the eldest two Miss Bennets always spent some part of the year with them, for the benefit of the masters there. 

It is difficult then, not to give into the immediate fear that the rumors had reached Meryton; that perhaps Mrs. Bennet had not snorted negus out of her nose and onto his coat because she was surprised to hear his name, but because she knew of the whispered scandals surrounding him thanks to her brother or sister-in-law. He danced the next with Maria Lucas, who confirmed all her elder sister had said. This disturbed him so much he asked Darcy to once again investigate, and kept to his own party, dancing with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, until the ball ended. 

He could not join in with Bingley’s cries that the ball had ended too early, and upon the coachman setting the carriage in motion, confessed to being very tired. “When you are an old man of thirty, you will also think this a late evening, especially after a morning of travel.” 

Bingley laughed, in high enough spirits, to find this a very fine joke. “Upon my word, it was a fine first evening was it not?”

“How can you think  _ that _ ?” asked Miss Bingley skeptically.

“Because it is true! I have never met with more pleasant people or prettier girls in my life. Everybody has been most kind and attentive to our whole party, and there was no formality or stiffness.”

“I suppose that is true, if we call dousing the poor colonel with negus a kind act to welcome us to the neighborhood,” replied Miss Bingley. “I hope your coat is not ruined.”

“I am sure it is not; my valet is very resourceful.” Richard looked involuntarily at Darcy, who had nobly agreed to sit in the middle facing backwards, with Richard on his left and Bingley on his right. 

Darcy said, coolly, “I confess to thinking that sharing a friendly cup ought not to be a surprise. I would have preferred a great deal more formality.”

“It seems to me to have been an accident," Richard said. 

“For my part, I did not see anyone jostle her,” whispered Mrs. Hurst to Miss Bingley, quite audibly. “I  _ rather  _ think overindulgence was more at fault than overcrowding.”

Darcy frowned thoughtfully. “I do not know if that is the case, but I am more inclined to attribute the incident to ill-breeding or some kind or another.”

“Upon my word, what makes you say that?” cried Bingley. “Mrs. Bennet was very attentive to me, and begged me to make sure Colonel Fitzwilliam was not offended. She wished to invite us all to dine with her family at Longbourn as soon as was convenient, as an apology. Only her very great mortification over the incident kept her from making the offer to you, colonel; indeed, she and her daughters seemed to be constantly engaged in some debate over whether it would be proper for her to go up to you herself, or to have Miss Elizabeth go in her stead, or to do it by proxy. I was very glad to have been of some service to such kind people. I never thought we should enter into the neighborhood’s social rounds this quickly.”

Darcy nudged Richard’s elbow with his own and then raised his eyebrows. Richard’s stomach dropped. But this could mean anything. Bingley could be right. Or Darcy’s insinuation could be; Richard was haunted by the knowledge of the London brother. Of course the brother would pass on any rumor, especially of an eventual heir to an Earldom in desperate search of a Bennet, willing to marry any lady even if she was not his match, if all his nieces bore the name  _ Bennet  _ — 

“I am not sure if it is kindness, as much as a desire to ingratiate themselves,” said Miss Bingley. “But I did like the eldest Miss Bennet. Her manners are quite as pretty as she is, and I should not mind seeing more of her.” 

To this Mr. Hurst gave a loud snore. 

Richard envied him. His thoughts raced so quickly through his mind, he could hardly catch them long enough to understand them, and he felt he would not sleep for a week entire. 


	3. In which a bark wanders

Elizabeth had been four years in possession of her soulmark, and finding no one who answered to the name ‘Fitzwilliam’ in any of her circles in all that time, had ceased to dwell upon it. Hers was a character made for activity and cheerfulness; to brood with gloomy aspect upon what she could not change was alien to her. Indeed, whenever she was inclined to lowness, something always vexed her out of it, if she did not laugh herself out of lowness first. If she thought of soulmarks, it was always in connection with her sister Jane, whose own mark seemed to suggest an easier search, and a conventionally happy destiny. 

Mr. Bennet, in one of his more cynical moods, had once observed to Elizabeth that there were as many men named Charles among their narrow sliver of English society as there were women named Jane. “Jane is of a cheerful and obliging disposition,” Mr. Bennet had said. “No doubt she can convince herself into loving any Charles who professes to love her.”

Elizabeth did not believe this to be so— Jane was too sensible and also too romantic for that— but Jane was unshakable in her belief that she and all her sisters would meet their soulmates. The world could not be so cruel as to give one the name of one’s soulmate, without providing the soulmate likewise. The addition of a Mr. Charles Bingley to Meryton society was therefore to Jane both expected and exciting— and though she would never form her opinion on a person without first meeting them, she had every hope he would turn out to have a ‘Jane’ on his wrist, to match the ‘Charles’ on hers. 

Mrs. Bennet had moved past hope to a nebulous certainty this was proof of the belief she had preserved all her life and also attempted to pass onto all her daughters: a True Match was a rare, difficult, and desirable thing, but every single one of her daughters would have one. This Charles Bingley with his lease of Netherfield and his five thousand a year and his good family from the north of England was The Sign Mrs. Bennet had been waiting for. Good and beautiful Jane, rewarded by God, the universe, or... something— Mrs. Bennet’s religious and philosophical ideas were inchoate at best— for being so good and beautiful had been rewarded with her soulmate. A rich and well connected young man used to living in London would not only mean the making of Jane’s future, but the security of all others. He could put the other Bennet daughters in the way of other young men of his station.

Elizabeth had thought this a ridiculous surmise until the moment Mr. Bingley introduced Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, Jane, and Mary to the libation bearer of his party as Colonel Fitzwilliam.

The floor suddenly breaking beneath her feet and sending her plummeting into the taproom below could not have surprised Elizabeth more.

And then, a half-second later, before she had taken in more than a confused impression of a well-mannered man in a well-tailored mulberry coat, she rather wished it would. Falling to her death seemed preferable to the reality of Mrs. Bennet’s snorting negus out of her nose and onto the only ‘Fitzwilliam’ Elizabeth had ever met.

It had been a bad start to the evening. 

It had not improved from there. 

And now, just when Mrs. Bennet had finished cross-examining all of her daughters on what Mr. Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam had said to them, Elizabeth thought she might at last fling herself into the solitary misery of bed— after a ball, Jane always fell instantly, enviously asleep the second she closed her eyes— Mrs. Bennet herded them all out of the carriage to the sitting room, like a collie in rose silk and scalloped lace. Mr. Bennet was still up, and when he raised his eyes from his book, seemed surprised to see them all. “Good heavens, is that the time?”

“Mr. Bennet,  _ what  _ do you think has happened?”

“The inn caught fire and there are to be no more Assemblies in Meryton?”

“No, no, Mr.  _ Charles _ Bingley’s party—” with a significant look at Jane “—attended and oh! How obliging they were. Mr. Bingley danced every dance you know, once with all the girls and  _ twice  _ with Jane, but the other members of his party….” Mrs. Bennet raised her eyebrows significantly at Mr. Bennet. 

Elizabeth had shown her mark only to Jane, her parents, and then, on Mary’s sixteenth birthday, to Mary, which was perhaps unfair to her other sisters, but she did not trust in Kitty or Lydia’s discretion. Her trust in Jane was absolute, and her belief in Mary’s disinterest in anything after 1325 BC equally strong, but Elizabeth did not know if Mrs. Bennet might expose her before her sisters. She had been, to Elizabeth’s eyes, agonizingly obvious about what Elizabeth’s mark was in front of all their neighbors, not merely by snorting negus all over the obviously flustered Colonel Fitzwilliam, but by shoving her continually towards the poor man, with handkerchiefs, and salt cellars, and promises of dancing ability that even Elizabeth— who considered herself quite a good dancer— found grossly overexaggerated. Elizabeth hardly had time to determine whether or not she liked Colonel Fitzwilliam; she was too busy being embarrassed by her mother, and reflecting bitterly that this gentleman— perhaps not handsome, but so well-mannered and so skillful at smoothing over the awkwardness of their first meeting, Elizabeth would have thought well of him if he’d been Bottom the Weaver post fairy-ass’s-head-prank— could not possibly think seriously of her, after such a first meeting. 

And his cousin! Elizabeth both blamed him and found she could  _ not  _ blame him for thinking poorly of Meryton society when his first experience with it was Mrs. Bennet’s punch to the arm. 

Mr. Bennet had been methodically putting away his book and his reading glasses with a slowness and attention that meant he would much rather not have done it. “Well, what of the party?”

“His sisters were with him— such very elegant ladies! One is married to a Mr. Hurst, with a house in town, and the other unmarried. Miss Bingley is to be his hostess while he is in Hertfordshire. I could not get word of their portions, but I am told they attended a very fine seminary in town, and move in the first circles. Their dress declares it. The lace on Mrs. Hurst’s gown—”

“No lace, Mrs. Bennet, I beg you,” protested Mr. Bennet.

“I am sure they will be very charming neighbors,” said Jane. She glanced at where Elizabeth, cheeks burning, was fussing with a shoe ribbon for lack of anything else to do. “There were two other gentlemen, friends of Mr. Bingley’s down for the shooting. Perhaps you might see them while you are out shooting yourself.”

This both served and did not serve as a distraction from Colonel Fitzwilliam and his cousin, for Mr. Bennet professed a disinclination to shoot, and Mrs. Bennet had suddenly realized that the gentlemen from Netherfield would almost certainly accept an invitation for an afternoon’s shooting, if Mr. Bennet extended one. Mr. Bennet refused, as that would mean one, leaving his library, and two, entertaining strangers, which were two of his least favorite activities. The argument did not end with the evening.

It was resumed at breakfast, where Mrs. Bennet swiveled, like the country attorney’s daughter she was, from a cross-examination of Elizabeth, vis-a-vis what Colonel Fitzwilliam had said about the best kind of hunting dog, to firing off numerous accusations of neglect, bad faith, and gross mismanagement of self and estate to Mr. Bennet. Why would he not go shooting? Did he have no concern for his health? Why would he not exercise? Did he wish for his fields to be overrun with birds? Did he want to decrease his income as well as his years of good health?

It rained, which forbade the usual distraction of the Lucas family’s visit, to dissect the ball and catalogue all its parts, like the most ardent naturalists, instead allowing Mrs. Bennet to work herself up into a state of nervousness so severe, she ended the morning exclaiming, “If you will not take more exercise then what future is there for me or the girls? You shall die, and we shall go starve in the hedgerows!”

To this Mr. Bennet had replied, “You take as much exercise as I do, my dear; there is every likelihood that I shall outlive you.” 

To  _ that  _ Mrs. Bennet had no recourse but to retreat to her room with a nervous headache, with the repeated cry of, “No one knows what it is that I suffer!” 

“La, how Mama drones on,” said Lydia, busy wasting silver paper with Kitty. “I suppose she is interested because Colonel what’s-his-name is an Earl’s son and it is a hanging offense to spill wine all over a peer. I think Maria said he was a second son, though, so perhaps it is just a fine, or something.” 

This surprised Mr. Bennet. It did not surprise Lizzy to discover her mother had elided over that incident, though it puzzled her, somewhat, that she had managed to avoid speaking Colonel Fitzwilliam’s name. One could only thank Jane for that. She tried to look her thanks, but Jane seemed to think this thanks in advance and interrupted, “I am sure Mama would not thank you for holding it over her. It was not her fault, you know; there was such a crowd at the Assembly Rooms and she was jostled from behind as Sir William was so kindly introducing us to Mr. Bingley’s party. She is most eager to make amends.” 

“Oh Lord yes, she was every minute trying to send Lizzy over with some apology or other,” said Lydia, unconcernedly. “It was very lucky Kitty and me had partners the whole night or she would have got us walking after him too. I wonder Mama did not get you to go too, Mary. I am sure she would have made Jane go, if she was not already so set on putting her by Mr. Bingley. Is he  _ really  _ your soulmate, Jane? You are not like Mary, and Mama was never so excited about neighbors before.” 

Jane graciously but firmly took Lydia to task for this, which almost made Lydia sorry, and did at least shift attention away from Elizabeth, who bent over the mending. This was Elizabeth’s usual chore for, in an optimistic frame of mind, she could consider a sort of puzzle, one she could take pleasure in quickly solving. She was much better at it than embroidering or— God forbid— hemming, which required more mathematics and more sustained concentration than she could muster for any solitary task indoors— but this could not occupy her mind fully. She could not determine whether or not the whole neighborhood knew her mark. Elizabeth had been so busy trying to keep her mother from further exposing her, she had hardly talked to anyone save her sisters and her partners. Charlotte had been arch and amused in her assurances that Jane had acted quickly enough that everyone thought Mrs. Bennet had spilled her negus, rather than spit it out, and spent the rest of their conversation discussing what she had heard of all the new party, not dwelling overmuch on Colonel Fitzwilliam. Her other partners had the good manners not to say anything (aside from Mr. Darcy), and Colonel Fitzwilliam himself had been pointedly kind. He had danced with every Bennet sister, to show he was not offended— or perhaps he did so because his wrist read ‘Bennet’…?

Kitty and Lydia got into so loud an argument over who had ruined the embroidery design they were tracing that Elizabeth could no longer concentrate. She put aside this unprofitable line of thinking and refused to take it out again when she and Jane were preparing for bed. She instead spoke determinedly of all she had learned of Mr. Charles Bingley from Colonel Fitzwilliam— and a little from Mr. Darcy, who had spent most of their dance trying to prove his hypothesis that the Bennets were the most ill-bred family in the county. 

This pleased Jane at least, who sat hugging her knees on the edge of the bed, smiling. “He is everything I think a young man ought to be— sensible and lively, and very open.”

“And handsome and rich, which every young man ought to be if he can.” 

Jane looked shyly at the nightrail over her knees. “I do like him Lizzy.”

“You have liked many a stupider Charles,” said Elizabeth, flopping on the bed beside her. “Proceed apace, my dear Jane.”

Jane tugged lightly on the end of Elizabeth’s sleeping braid. “Of course I shall go carefully, Lizzy. We have met only the once. I was prepared to find him… anything but what he is, which is very charming. Perhaps my head is a little turned from such good fortune as this.” 

“You are so good that fortune must be good to you,” said Elizabeth drowsily. Jane had already pulled off the sloppily tied ribbon, so as to re-braid Elizabeth’s hair. It was impossible not to be soothed by the action that had ended every day since she and Jane had first been bedfellows. “I am not at all surprised that Mr. Charles Bingley turned out to be exactly as you always hoped your Charles would be, and I shall not be surprised at all if he should bear ‘Jane’ upon his wrist.” 

“I am sorry you were so surprised last night,” Jane said, “but Mr. Bingley told me that Colonel Fitzwilliam is the most well-mannered gentleman of his acquaintance, which, given his behavior to us after Mama’s accident, cannot be in doubt. He seems a very  _ kind  _ man. He was a most attentive partner and listened with great interest when I spoke of you.”

Elizabeth shifted restlessly and Jane, reading this correctly, said, “But it is late. We shall speak of it in the morning.”

This they did not do, for Mrs. Bennet surprised them all by being up before the rest of the household and coming into breakfast bearing a basket as proudly and as solemnly as if she had just rescued Moses from the reeds of the Nile. 

Mr. Bennet, sensing this spelled nothing good, reached for his newspaper. 

“Look what I have for you,” trilled out Mrs. Bennet. She set the basket in her husband’s lap, and whisked off the top. A pointer puppy sprang out, and began to earnestly lick Mr. Bennet’s face. 

Mr. Bennet endured it in a state of shock, while nearly all his daughters— and Mrs. Bennet— began cooing and cosseting the puppy, who accepted their attentions with as many licks and tail wags as he could bestow. He was a friendly, open fellow, and Elizabeth instantly lost her heart to him. What were men and soulmarks to a new puppy? Nothing.

“Whyever did you acquire this creature?” asked Mr. Bennet, wiping his face with his table napkin. “The gamekeeper has two pointers already. You dislike it enormously whenever they approach the house too closely.”

“But they are getting old,” cried Mrs. Bennet. 

“As am I.”

“All the more reason for you to take more exercise— certainly more than you have been. What is to become of us, my dear Mr. Bennet, if you should die of ill-health?”

“What should become of you if an untrained pointer barrells me over, and I break my neck while out hunting? No, no, it is safer by far to remain in the bookroom.”

“Then we shall keep him,” declared Lydia. 

“Oh yes, Papa, do let us,” said Kitty eagerly. “You said we might have a pug, if we mastered our geography.”

“You didn’t,” objected Mr. Bennet. “Kitty, can you tell me even now where one might find the Danube river?” 

Kitty did manage to answer this correctly— thanks to Mary, who despite her desire to remain unmoved, could not help but love a creature so determined to love her, and had whispered the answer to Kitty in the melee. 

“There you see?” cried Mrs. Bennet. “The girls have been wishing for a dog. What shall you name him, my dears?”

“No,” said Mr. Bennet. “If the girls name it, there will be no getting rid of it.”

“There is to be no getting rid of it,” insisted Mrs. Bennet. “The dog is staying, and you are taking it out and killing all your birds in the good country air and walking about the good country lanes and taking care of your health!” 

“This again.” Mr. Bennet sank into his chair, already and resoundingly defeated. “Cry Havoc and let slip the dogs of war. There is no getting you off this subject, is there?”

“We shall call him Havoc if that is what you prefer, though I find that a very odd name for a dog— but, never mind! You are master of this house.”

“Am I?” Mr. Bennet asked dryly. “I suppose I shall go and speak to the gamekeeper.”

While he was doing this, the ladies of the household managed a distracted breakfast and then took Havoc first to the parlor, and then out to the grounds for as many games of play as Havoc could beg from them, and thence to the lanes for a long walk to tire him out. Havoc’s main goals in life appeared to be the destruction of all shoes, workbaskets, and flowerbeds (which was why Mrs. Bennet had vexedly turned him out into the lanes telling them all to walk to Meryton), and, failing that, the acquisition of mud. There being insufficient mud for his purposes in Meryton, he tugged his lead from Lydia’s inattentive hand in search of more promising puddles.

Great was the wailing and gnashing of teeth when Havoc gallomphed off, his ears flapping. Lydia and Kitty spent some minutes chasing after him until they were distracted by a shop window; and Mary, who was not accustomed to such long walks, had such a painful stitch in her side, Jane felt obliged to take her to their Aunt Phillips. 

“She can send a servant, perhaps,” said Jane, supporting Mary. 

“I can still see Havoc,” said Elizabeth, with the bright, happy realization that this was a perfect excuse for a much longer period of solitary exercise than anticipated. “I shall go after him, Jane, and meet you at Aunt Phillips— I daresay I can catch up with him easily enough, once I am out of sight of town, and may run.”

Bliss it was, to run down the familiar country lanes, out of the sight of the multitude. There were a few sheep startled, a few horses swiveling their ears at her, and her own dear county about her to rush through with the happiness of familiarity. The joys of rapid motion in the crisp, clean air of autumn invigorated her, and, for the first fifteen minutes, she did not mind at all that Havoc did not mind _her_ at all. To jump over stiles, and spring over puddles was no evil to him or to her; it was only when they began to near Netherfield’s grounds that Elizabeth’s patience wore thin, and irritation fueled her steps more than enjoyment. 

He disappeared into a thicket and did not emerge again. 

“At least he has stopped,” she said to herself. “But why he has and what he is doing now is a question for the ages. Come here Havoc!”

He panted, but remained fixed in place by— ah. A bramblebush. His very dirty lead was caught. Elizabeth began struggling into the underbrush, bent as a poker trying to get at the dog, and at last grasped the lead. She tugged. He panted at her, but would not budge. “You’re not stuck, Havoc. Come away.” Tug. Nothing. “Why will you not move?”

“He’s pointing, Miss Bennet,” came a pleasant voice. 

She whirled about, dropping the lead and hastily smoothing down her skirts. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam was a little ways down the lane, holding an unloaded musket over his arm, and two full-grown pointers gamboling about him like erratic, furry asteroids. They eagerly scented the air and then pointed their noses at the bramblebush as well, going suddenly very still, with one front leg up. “He’s found a bird and is kindly alerting you to it so that you may shoot it— as are these two. Very aptly named dogs, pointers. Did I hear you calling yours Havoc?”

Any conversation on names felt dangerous; Elizabeth colored. “Yes— he has taken it too much to heart and has caused me no end of trouble this morning.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed. Perhaps he was not handsome, in the classical way, but she liked how he looked when he laughed, and he smiled with unexpected charm. (She had noticed  _ that  _ at the Assembly; and spent longer than she liked thinking about it.) “I am afraid you have doomed yourself with such a name; his lead shall always be slipping from your hand, he will always gamol off in search of birds instead of staying by you on your walks, and he shall eat whatever he scents. Unless Havoc is a housepet?”

“Havoc was intended to be a present from my mother to my father, before grouse-hunting began in earnest, but my younger sisters laid claim to him.” She eyed Havoc critically. “I am not sure he has it in him to be a housepet. He ran all the way from Meryton—I thought in search of mud, for he has found plenty of it— but possibly in search of grouse.”

“It is quite possible; a pointer can be tireless on the scent. Might I be of assistance?”

Elizabeth sighed and admitted defeat. Colonel Fitzwilliam kindly approached and held a hand out to her; she put her hand on his, tentatively at first, then leaning on it gratefully as she engaged in the delicate acrobatic feat of emerging from the brambles with skirts and petticoats unscathed. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam loaded with an ease and alacrity that Elizabeth attributed to military training, and ordered the dogs on. Out sprang a pheasant, and before Elizabeth was quite certain of what happened, the gun had discharged, and Havoc trotted over to her, tail wagging, head up as proudly as a newly made lord, with the pheasant in his teeth. This he presented to Elizabeth.

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, a little helplessly. 

“Good boy,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, giving Havoc a scratch behind the ear. “What a gallant fellow you are, presenting your mistress with such a fine bird already.”

“I should not like to take one of Mr. Bingley’s birds,” said Elizabeth, “particularly when  _ you  _ were the one to do the work.” 

“Ah, but it was your dog. He found the bird, and must therefore decide to whom it belongs.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Is that so? I confess to ignorance of the proper legal statutes in such a case as this. If you will continue to be so gallant— perhaps you might extend me the courtesy of a game bag? I have made enough work for the laundry maids as is, and it is at least a mile back to Meryton, where my sisters are waiting for me at our aunt’s.”

“Allow me to carry it then,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “if you will let me walk you there?” 

He smiled up at her and Elizabeth suddenly could not think of any reason to refuse. She was too tired and too aware that the Colonel was the only Fitzwilliam she knew to be very easy, and was grateful at the Colonel’s commonplaces about Hertfordshire, how much of the year she spent in it, and how much in Town. She replied as tactfully as she could that her parents so preferred the country, they never left it, and that her own sojourns in town depended on the largess of her aunt and uncle, in— and she eyed him slightly— Cheapside.

Bafflingly, he seemed relieved to hear it, and moved more cheerfully to the play she had seen when last visiting, and talked with such spirit, Elizabeth hardly noticed the walk. She had seldom met any man as agreeable, or as interested in hearing her opinion on trivialities, but— then again, perhaps he was only extraordinarily well-bred. He was attentive to Mrs. Phillips and gracious to all her sisters when pressed to come in and have some tea before making the trek back to Netherfield. He paid Elizabeth no marked attention in company, even while clearly and obviously enjoying her conversation which meant… what, exactly?

Elizabeth had seldom been so confused about anything. She prided herself on her quickness of mind and judgment and had always assumed that if she met her soulmate, she would know at once. All she knew at present was that Colonel Fitzwilliam was very good at smoothing over the rougher parts of social interactions and had a smile that quite transformed his whole face. (He was, upon reflection, not in the least unhandsome when he was in good humor, which he seemed often to be.)

Mrs. Bennet received the pheasant— kindly wrapped by a servant of their uncle’s— with some surprise but with none at all hearing Colonel Fitzwilliam’s name. Mr. Bennet, lured out of the study by the noise of his five daughters descending upon the house with a dead bird and a muddy dog, started at that. 

“Who sent the pheasant?” demanded he.

“That Colonel Mama spilt punch on,” Lydia replied.  


“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” supplied Kitty. “He helped Lizzy capture Havoc, when he rushed off after the pheasant— Havoc did, not the Colonel. And the Colonel took tea with us at Aunt Phillips’s.”

”Though he was in a brown coat.” Lydia shook her head. “He  _ ought  _ to have worn his regimentals. I do not know why any man who could wear regimentals does not.” 

“Now this is good-breeding,” said Mrs. Bennet, her attention all on the pheasant. “I hope you thanked Colonel Fitzwilliam properly, Lizzy. It is at least a mile and a half from Netherfield to Meryton, if not two.”

A terrible suspicion occurred to Elizabeth. “How did you know Havoc ran off to Netherfield, Mama?”

Mrs. Bennet blustered over the question before hitting on an unconvincing, “Where else would the Colonel be?”

“He could have been visiting Meryton.”

“And Havoc lived in Netherfield’s kennels until this this morning; of course he would try and run home.” 

It was not so very complicated a plan, thought Elizabeth. Purchase a dog, which Lydia and Kitty would claim without taking any greater responsibility than they did in anything else; get the dog near Netherfield; let Havoc reign. Elizabeth was the greatest walker of all her sisters; of course she would go after it. The Colonel had said he had come down for the shooting, and Mrs. Bennet had pressed this information out of Elizabeth as she might press juice from an orange. It was likely he would be out, or one of the gentlemen would—

“Mama,” said Elizabeth, trying to keep her voice even, “did you plan all this?”

“I must take this down to cook at once!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Mr. Bennet, you  _ must  _ send a bird in return, it is only polite. Or invite the gentlemen to shoot with you, that would be better.” Off she flew.

“Colonel  _ Fitzwilliam. _ ” Mr. Bennet’s bright, keen gaze rested on Elizabeth. “Well, well.” 

“I ought to tend to the lavender,” said Elizabeth. For all its much vaunted calming properties, cutting the stalks did not soothe her in the least. Elizabeth quit the patch in as much agitation and confusion as when she approached it. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [full of sound and fury, signifying nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915318) by [rain_sleet_snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow)


End file.
